


Magic and Loss

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Series: Fathers' Day [3]
Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Adoption, Child Abandonment, Domestic, Established Relationship, Kid Fic, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Drug Use, Post-Canon, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-22 01:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10686861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: Another sequel to one of my Yuletide treats, Fathers' Day, which was, in turn, based on Ewan McGregor's Tweet about Curt and Arthur ending up together sober and with kids and running a recording studio in North London.





	Magic and Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Although the first fic in this series was written for Yuletide 2016, later installments including this one were not part of a challenge or gifts for anyone. Again, I reiterate that this story, like its predecessors, might be sappier than my usual for this fandom thanks to the source material, i.e., Ewan's famous word-of-Saint-Paul Tweet.

Arthur’s hands are shaking when he finds Curt’s cigarettes and lighter. He steps out onto the balcony, lights a cigarette, and starts to smoke it, frowning at the mess of muddy water that has collected on their one sad plastic lawn chair. He’d like to sit down, if he could. His mum’s call was exhausting, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it, or what he’s supposed to feel or think, now that his father’s gone.

He takes two or three hurried drags before he realizes that Matthew is leaning against the balcony door and waving at Arthur from inside the living room. _Shit_. Arthur exhales, guilt pricking him. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and crushes it beneath his heel.

“Let’s go back inside,” Arthur says to the little boy as he opens the door again. When he and Curt moved here, after Curt brought Matthew home thinking that Matthew was his son, they had agreed that the balcony would be for smoking. It wasn’t ideal, since it meant discouraging Matthew from coming out here, but Curt couldn’t quit cold turkey, and even Arthur needed the occasional cigarette when he had bad news, so that was the rule.

“Sorry, love, but your two dads need a smoking section…”

Matthew, however, has no intention of going inside now that the door has opened. He toddles out and tugs at Arthur’s jeans with one hand, the other raised in the air in what looks to Arthur like a tiny stretch.

“Carry?” Matthew asks.

Arthur obliges him and picks him up.

“That should be carry _me_ ,” he says. “Come on. Go inside?”

Matthew’s a clever kid. He shakes his head and points excitedly at something behind Arthur.

“Cat?” he asks.

Arthur spots a grey squirrel perched on a neighbour’s balcony rail, holding some trash in its hand-like paws. He can’t help smiling.

“Not quite, monkey. That’s not a cat.”

Matthew is having none of it.

“Cat!” he insists. He must like cats. Last week, they had spent an afternoon at Curt’s drummer Mike’s place, with Mike’s girlfriend, their four-year-old daughter, and their crotchety old tabby cat. Matthew had ignored the girl, who ignored him in turn, but took a shine to the cat, which encouraged him by fleeing under a table and hissing. Arthur, who liked cats, too, under _normal_ circumstances, had worried that the afternoon would end with a scratch to Matthew’s face, or, worse, with the boy overexerting himself and his heart in chasing the animal around the flat. But Matthew was all right. He was delighted, in fact, and Arthur ended up worrying for nothing.

“Cat?” Matthew asks again, pulling at Arthur’s sleeve. It’s a logical assumption, for such a young child: ‘cat’ _might_ be the generic term for small, non-human animals with four paws and grey fur.

“That’s a squirrel,” Arthur explains. “ _Squirrel_ –” though he knows the word may be too complicated for Matthew to pronounce yet. “Now, let’s go inside.”

He cuddles Matthew close, and wishes he could put off thinking about his biological family. Of course, that thought brings his mum’s voice back to him unbidden. She was more agitated than Arthur had ever heard her, which is understandable, though Arthur wished she had been more vocal all those years ago, when his father forced him to leave home. Even now – even if it makes him a terrible person – Arthur can’t muster much sympathy for his dad. They hadn’t spoken since the ‘70’s; Arthur only dared to keep in touch with his mum by calling when he knew his father would be out, which got harder after his father retired. The news was shocking, but there had been no love between Arthur and his father in years, if there ever was. His father’s death makes no difference to Arthur’s life, except as another source of vague and irrational guilt.

Yet his mum had trudged up a lot of bad memories. Arthur knows she hadn’t meant to. She was actually warmer and more apologetic than she had been in a long time, even saying how sorry she was that things turned out as they had between Arthur and his father. That was uncomfortable. Arthur had scrambled for any excuse to end the call and smoke a cigarette instead, though he’d promised to call her again soon. If nothing else, he'll need to tell her that he won't be flying back to England for the funeral.

Arthur grimaces, and fumbles with the balcony door while holding Matthew one-handed. Matthew chooses that moment to start squirming.

“Wanna stay,” he whines.

“You’re not dressed to be outside,” Arthur says, holding the door open with his foot and stepping across the threshold before Matthew can wriggle free and fall. “And neither am I. It’s getting cold out.”

Curt had bought Matthew a tiny motorcycle jacket of real leather for autumn. It’s incredibly cool, and incredibly _Curt_ , and, also, one of the stupidest purchases ever, since Matthew’s bound to outgrow it in a matter of months. The few times Arthur has taken Matthew out in that jacket, he had the distinct impression that people were staring at them, surprised that such a well-dressed toddler had such an ordinary dad. It was weird. Then again, it’s _always_ weird for Arthur to be out with Matthew. He’ll notice people watching him approvingly, and realize they must think he’s a good, straight father, and maybe a model husband to his wife who must be taking some time off. He’ll never get used to the feeling.

“Do you want a snack?” Arthur asks. Matthew is stubborn, and doesn’t answer, preferring instead to wriggle in Arthur’s arms, glancing around the flat. Arthur follows his gaze. Curt has come into the living room, his brow furrowed at Arthur and Matthew.

“I was wondering where everyone went,” Curt says.

“I needed a cigarette, but our son had other plans.”

It’s a joke between the two of them, how domestic they’ve become, although Curt is in the process of adopting Matthew alone. Arthur had thought it best not to complicate things by trying to get himself involved, and Curt’s lawyer didn’t contradict him. The process is going better than Arthur expected. Curt has stuck to the story that he thought he _was_ Matthew’s father, though Matthew turned out to be too young to be Curt’s child, and that no one else gives a damn about Matthew. Both points are completely true. The one downside is that Arthur has no idea what would become of him and Matthew if he broke up with Curt, or if anything happened to Curt. He hopes he won’t have to deal with either of those scenarios for a long time.

“I thought you were the healthy one,” Curt remarks. Arthur’s quite sure Curt’s about to add something else, but doesn’t let him.

“You needed to cut back more than me,” Arthur says. “I rarely smoke.”

“I know, I know.” Curt shrugs. “I still remember the first cough or cold I had after you moved in, and how you were freaking out like I was gonna die of – ”

Arthur cuts him off.

“Do you mind not joking about things like that?” he asks, sharply, narrowing his eyes at Curt.

“All right. Sorry.”

“Anyway, I never saw _anyone_ get so sick with colds or the flu, which I assume is from your smoking – which proves my point. You get everything that goes around, and they all set in really bad, so you can’t perform –”

“Relax,” Curt says, with a sardonic smile. “I’m not _that_ fragile, and I’ve cut way back.”

He had to, once they learned that Matthew was born with some heart defect that babies can get, and which might need surgery if it doesn’t heal on its own. The prospect terrifies Curt, who has never quite gotten over his own medical trauma. Arthur has had to remind him that Matthew may never need the surgery at all, and that if he does, they’ll be doing it to help him, not to harm him.

“I don't see how you never dated a smoker before,” Curt adds.

They have this argument at least once every other month. Arthur shifts Matthew’s weight in his arms, leaning him against his chest.

“I have, but no one was as bad as you.”

Curt's smoking is part of the perverse pleasure he used to take in abusing his body as much as he could and coming out the other end intact and joking, grimly, and shouting and singing, like it was all nothing. Of course, he would _also_ come out the other end weak and scared, with cancelled concerts and huge medical bills – he’s the last person who could get health insurance in America – and the dubious epithet of ‘rock star most likely to die tomorrow’. Thank goodness, he has changed most of his ways. The one exception is the cigarettes he still smokes when he’s out on the balcony, away from his son, or taking a walk. He’s better, but the cigarettes have taken their toll on his voice, which depresses him whenever he thinks about it too much.

Arthur continues, peevishly, “I’m glad you grew _some_ sense after the flu you had last year, when we had just taken Matthew in, and needed money you couldn’t earn, and then you got Matthew sick, too.”

That was when the doctors diagnosed Matthew’s heart issue. Arthur was already under tremendous strain, looking after Curt as well as a sick infant. His mum was quite a help, giving him advice through long distance phone calls, right under his father’s nose. Mike and his girlfriend Carrie were wonderful, too, although they didn’t have the constraints on them that Arthur’s mother did. He’d had help from two different time zones, almost round-the-clock, and it was a dreadful few days regardless.

“Okay,” Curt says, “you’re right. That was a pain in the ass, but now I’ve practically quit, and I want to know why _you_ were at my cigarettes. What’s wrong?”

Arthur bites his lip. He might be nagging about Curt’s health today because of his father’s heart attack. Arthur has never forgiven or cared for his father, but he _loves_ Curt.

“I was on the phone with my mum,” he says. “My father just died.”

Curt’s eyes widen. Then he lets out a low whistle.

“Shit – that _is_ sudden – but I wouldn’t lose any sleep if I were you.”

“I don’t think I will," Arthur admits. "I don’t know if that makes me an awful person, or what.”

“You’re not. Don’t worry about it.”

Arthur stares down at Matthew’s mess of blond curls. Matthew has stopped fussing and is leaning contentedly against Arthur to suck his thumb. It’s funny, how Arthur said Matthew looked nothing like Curt on the night they took him in. Arthur has since recanted those words. Matthew’s hair got lighter as he got older, which Arthur hadn’t realized was possible, though he thinks he remembers the opposite happening to some kids in his school when he was a boy. Now, with dark blond hair and blue eyes, Matthew does bear Curt some superficial resemblance. It might be coincidental; many people must have similar hair and eye colour to many other people, or it might be that Matthew’s mum – Debbie, Curt’s sort-of-ex from his junkie days – favours fair men, as Arthur does.  It’s weird to think about, and nothing Arthur ever expected he _would_ be thinking about, yet here they are, like a real family. They’re lucky Matthew’s doing as well as he is, too. He’s learning and developing normally, except for the heart issue and the fact that he was so clingy when he first came to live with them. The latter might be true of all babies; it’s not like they have any experience with kids or family life. All Arthur knows is that it was heartbreaking every time one of them had to leave a room and Matthew would start to cry. Arthur had suggested that maybe Matthew had never known consistent love or attention, and was asking for those things the only way he could, without being able to speak, but before he had any capacity for independence, either. That had only made them love him more. After all, they both knew what it was like to be abandoned by family.

“I’d say forget it,” Curt adds, tugging Arthur back to the present, “but what do I know about healthy coping?”

Arthur adjusts his grip on Matthew. Matthew has gained so much weight that it’s getting harder to hold him for more than a few minutes, despite Arthur being pretty strong. He wonders why mothers usually end up holding their kids the most instead of fathers, in straight couples.

“I’m sadder for my mum than anyone,” Arthur says. “I mean, she said he was going to the chemist or something this morning, and had a massive heart attack on the front steps.” He sighs. “I never heard her like that. She was very apologetic to _me_ , too…”

Curt, however, is less forgiving.

“Yeah? What did she ever do for you when you needed her?”

_Not much,_ Arthur thinks. But he says, “I don’t know – She wasn’t happy when I left home, and she’s tried to keep in touch. She answered a lot of questions about taking care of Matthew, too.”

It was strange for his mother, knowing that Arthur had a family with his boyfriend; he could hear it in her voice and in the long, strained pauses in those first few phone calls. But she got over it soon and never said anything outright. She’s used to taking what she can get from Arthur. He supposes he’s grateful, in a way. He knows she was sincere in apologizing to him and in saying she wishes things hadn’t turned out as they did. He had suspected she felt that way from the morning he first left home, when she waved him off despite his father, and he was certain of it when he called her from London sometime in late ’76. She sounded so relieved to hear from him after nearly two years. Arthur was nineteen, at one of the lowest points in his life after the Flaming Creatures had broken up and he had been unceremoniously dumped, and reconciling with his mum had cheered him a bit.

Curt wrinkles his nose. These days, if anything can soften Curt toward someone, it’s knowing that they’ve shown Matthew some kindness. He’d do anything for that kid. Arthur remembers the first time Curt was away performing since Matthew came into their lives, and how he kept phoning from his hotel in Chicago to check on them. Instead of Curt ditching Arthur for someone cooler or younger who made their way backstage, as Arthur had dreaded, Curt was calling Arthur twice a day like an anxious mum. That was another impossibly weird feeling for Arthur, as though they'd become other people. But it didn’t feel right to leave Matthew alone with a babysitter so early on, although they had found a very good one, and although Arthur hated missing Curt’s concerts, especially when Curt was thinking of retiring from performing. Touring has been getting less and less attractive to him. Having a child he loves and the problems with his throat have made him wonder if it’s more hassle than it’s worth, for now. Arthur has suggested that Curt try to use that to his advantage, to create more buzz when he does perform live. He might be able to sell the idea to his label, or to a new one.

“You _should_ only play gigs occasionally,” Arthur has said. “It’d be easier on you, and each concert would be a big deal, like you've just come out of retirement. Help the rumour spread, and the money should roll in.”

Curt smirked in answer. “That’s almost a Brian Slade kind of move.”

“No, it’s not,” Arthur said, surprised at how much the words stung.

“I said _almost._ It’s smart, though.”

“You could do benefits for charity, if you want, or donate some of the proceeds. I don’t know if splitting the proceeds is a thing that’s done, or if it’s too logical for the industry, though.” He’d shrugged. Curt had kissed him, and promised to keep the idea in mind.

Arthur shakes off the memory and looks back at Curt, expectantly.

“I don’t know,” Curt says, his voice grudging. He’s still thinking of Arthur’s mum: that much is obvious. “Maybe one of two’s better than nothing, but I wouldn’t lose sleep over your folks – living or dead.” He reaches out a hand and strokes Matthew’s hair. “How’s my little boy, hey? How’re we doing?”

“Want snack,” Matthew replies.

“Yeah? I figured you might. Watch this.”

Matthew’s eyes widen in anticipation. Curt reaches behind his ear and apparently pulls a chocolate chip cookie from somewhere beneath Matthew’s curls. Matthew giggles before gobbling up the proffered cookie. Arthur raises an eyebrow at the smears of crushed chocolate on Curt’s hand.

“Those tricks work better with coins,” Arthur remarks, “or an antique pin slipped into my beer.”

“Well, isn’t everyone a critic?” Curt asks. “At least I have a grateful audience _here_ – ” he tickles Matthew’s chin – “instead of, ‘oh, why don’t you do your early stuff?’ or ‘it’s been twenty years; why are you playing the same shit and put a fucking shirt on, bla bla bla’ – right, Matt?” Matthew gives another peal of laughter. “Although you were pretty impressed in that bar a few years ago, _Mr. Stuart_ …”

Arthur likes Curt’s sleight of hand tricks, and he _was_ impressed and touched on the night they met, or rather met the second time, after the Tommy Stone show. A few days later, when they slept together, Curt pulled a condom from behind Arthur’s ear, which was cheesy, but much appreciated. He’d done the same thing with a scrap of paper for a fan to sign, a young punk girl who spotted Curt with Arthur in a Chelsea record store on one of their early dates. Arthur had thought the girl would explode from excitement.

“I meant you’ve got chocolate all over your hand,” Arthur says, pointing.

Curt licks it off. “I had about four cookies myself – and don’t say anything; they’re baby-sized.”

Arthur laughs. “I won’t. And I liked your trick with the pin; it took – style. Panache.” Curt’s little tricks are cool, even if he only knows two or three. That’s more than Arthur’s been able to master.

Curt beams.

“The pin was complicated ‘cause of the size and weight, and I had to improvise to get it into your beer. It’s easier with a kid who falls for the same trick every day, right, Matt?”

Matthew is still giggling.

“Wait ‘til he’s a teenager,” Arthur says, thinking, _God, I hope I’m around to see that._ “He might not be so easy to impress then.”

“We’ll see. Can you take Matt for ice cream or something later? I’ve _almost_ got this song finished…”

Nothing in the world could stop Curt writing music prolifically, although he’s at an impasse with his label, who expect lengthy, grueling tours to promote new records. Arthur tries to be supportive without pushing him either way.

“I need a smoke first, but I was thinking I’d take Matthew to the bookstore after that. I think he'd like some more books about animals. I think most kids love animals and animal... things.”

Curt raises an eyebrow. “You’re the expert now?”

“No, but there was a squirrel on someone’s balcony, and Matthew kept asking me if it was a cat. It was pretty funny and sweet.”

At the word _cat_ , Matthew jerks his head up and looks around. Arthur rubs some crumbs from his chin with his sleeve.

“Kid,” Curt tells Matthew, pretending to cluck his tongue, “a squirrel’s not the same thing as a f – frigging cat.”

They expect Matthew to start swearing any day now. They’ve learned not to worry about it, and Matthew doesn’t seem worried, holding onto Arthur’s neck with one hand, his gaze fixed on the window and his thumb in his mouth.

“You're getting heavy, monkey,” Arthur says, “do you want to go down for a bit? Walk around?”

Matthew considers, then shakes his unruly hair.

“No,” he says. “No down.”

Curt sniggers.

“Kid knows what he wants.”

Arthur starts to kiss Matthew’s hair, recalls the half-cigarette he’d smoked earlier, and draws back, feeling rather guilty.

“Then why don't you go to your other dad? Curt, take him, will you?”

“Come here,” Curt says. He takes Matthew from Arthur's arms, the smile spreading across his features and taking years off his face. It's amazing how much he - well, both of them, really - has come to love Matthew over the past year and a half. Arthur remembers something Curt told him months before, about how his worst nightmare was probably Matthew turning out as fucked up as he used to be.

“I’d hate to see him throw away his life on some drug,” Curt had said one night after Matthew fell asleep. Matthew was about fourteen months old. Unusually, Curt and Arthur hadn't seized the opportunity to go fuck like rabbits in their bedroom: Curt sounded too low for sex. His tone hadn’t so much alarmed Arthur as it had confirmed his longstanding suspicion that Curt’s optimism was, at heart, largely bravado.

“He won’t,” Arthur had replied. The words were out of his mouth before he realized that they formed one of those dreadful and useless platitudes that he always hated, and that Curt was bound to hate. Curt’s jaw tightened.

“I need a cigarette,” he said, ignoring Arthur, and slinking off to the balcony before Arthur could say anything more.

Arthur had let him smoke for five or ten minutes before going to him.

“I’m sorry,” he began when he joined Curt outside. Curt was slouched against the balcony railing rather than sitting in the lawn chair, his cigarette held in his mouth. His arms were bare beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt, although the night was chilly, and Arthur was already cold.

“It’s not you,” Curt replied. “I know you’re trying to be nice, and you have been. A lot of people would have walked out on me when I brought Matt home.”

Arthur wondered who _would_ do so, but said nothing, and let Curt go on.

“I just – It’s like you said once, how is this _not_ gonna end in disaster?”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Arthur murmured. “I was probably sleep deprived.”

“No, you were probably _right._ ” Curt exhaled. “I don’t want to be the sort of person who ends up hurting a kid, you know? I’ve done a lot of fucked up things in my life, but I don’t want to do that.”

Arthur had stood by Curt, quietly, inventorying in his mind the few things he knew about Curt’s childhood – Curt talking about keeping out of his parents’ and his siblings’ sight whenever he could, and the way his face twisted the one time he mentioned his older brother, and, of course, the shock treatment. Arthur put a hand on his arm. It seemed the best, and safest, thing to do.

“Look, he’s a good kid,” Arthur said. “And you’re really good with him. Whatever happens later – you’ll deal with it. _We_ ’ll deal with it; I’ll help you as long as we’re together.”

Curt’s mouth twitched.

“ _I’m_ not breaking up with _you_ anytime soon. If you’re about to dump me for a bigger star, please tell me.”

“I’m not: my groupie days are a thing of the past,” Arthur promised. He didn’t mention that he, too, loved Matthew, and that one of his nightmares was Curt leaving him and severing Arthur’s relationship with the closest thing he would ever have to a child, since Arthur wasn’t any sort of legal or official parent to Matthew. Curt leaving, Curt dying, Curt lapsing back into drug use – so many things could snatch both Curt and Matthew away from him. He could, and still _can,_ imagine the whole, horrible chain of events that would send the boy back to his mother or to some distant biological – and straight– relative or foster family. If it came to that, Arthur would probably hire a lawyer and fight until he either won, which seemed impossible even in his imagination, or ran out of courts to appeal in or money to pay the lawyer, which seemed most likely. 

“I’m not sure what you’re doing with me – if your groupie days are behind you – but anyway.” Curt took another drag on his cigarette. “I don’t want to fuck this kid up, and I don’t want him to end up hating me and turning to whatever drugs instead. And I don’t know what to do if his mom ever gets her shit together and wants to be involved with him again.”

“You said she didn’t,” Arthur said quickly, his voice rising. It was the first time Curt had suggested that Debbie might reappear and reassert herself. “You said she wanted to – to sign everything over to you, like she couldn’t get rid of him fast enough.”

“Yeah, that’s what she wants _now._ If she ever cleans up her act, she could change her mind.” He sighed. “Obviously, I don’t give a shit about a kid having a mom and a dad and a traditional American family with a picket fence and whatever, but I don’t know what would be best for Matt.”

“It’s another bridge to cross when we get there – _if_ we get there. We might not. For now, she can’t be in his life, and she doesn’t want to.”

Curt didn't answer for a while.

“I don’t know if it’s genetic or what," he said at last. "The drugs, I mean. Maybe Matt doesn’t stand a chance, but of anyone in his life, I wish he’d be more like you. _You_ were smart enough to stay away from hard shit.”

Arthur was never that smart or that lucky that he’d want his kid to follow in his footsteps, though he suffered more from crushing poverty in his early years than from any physical addiction. That was thanks to his father and the trouble he had finishing school and getting a proper job after he left home, on top of the shame and the humiliation of being outed and rejected like he was. He survived by sponging on his boyfriends, which meant a series of relationships in which he had neither power nor self-respect. For a long time, the first thing Arthur had looked for in a man wasn’t physical attractiveness or personality or even music, but willingness to let Arthur move in with him fast so Arthur would have a roof over his head. How could he have had any self-respect – any hope of equality? He remembers how scared he was that he’d end up sleeping rough, on park benches or in metro stations, or sucking cock for money in Piccadilly somewhere. It’s a good reminder of how little he should feel over his father’s death, except that getting the news was unpleasant and has forced him to think of his own mortality and that of his _real_ loved ones.

He returns to the present, and realizes with annoyance that his response to his father’s heart attack probably shouldn’t be to steal Curt’s cigarettes while acting like he’s so clever because he’s only an occasional smoker.

“I really _do_ need a cigarette, though,” Arthur says, obstinately. “Do you mind if I grab a couple and go for a walk?”

Curt tilts his head.

“You’ll be okay alone? Because I didn’t mean to make things worse, and if you want to talk…”

“It’s fine.” Arthur reaches over to ruffle Matthew’s hair. 

“You’re such a great kid,” he says, the way no one in his family ever said to him when he was a child. Matthew grins without dislodging his thumb from his mouth.

“I’ll take Matt out later,” Arthur promises, “but I need that cigarette first.”

“As long as you change before taking him anywhere,” Curt says, his mouth curving ironically. “I’m gonna give you the same lecture about second-hand smoke that you always give me.”

“I get it. Make sure he’s ready to go out with me when I get back, okay?”

“Sure – and before that, I might teach him to play guitar or start a riot or a fire or something.”

Curt tickles Matthew under his chin. Matthew giggles, and Arthur grins at them, relaxing, all thoughts of past losses and hardships ebbing from his brain. He knows Curt won’t do anything worse with Matthew than build elaborate block towers on the kitchen floor so they can destroy them together. As for music, Matthew is fascinated when Curt sings or plays, but he lacks the coordination to do anything himself, for now: Curt has tried.

“If he wants more to eat, you should cut up an apple for him,” Arthur adds. “There are some on the counter; I don't _think_ they've gone all brown and disgusting yet.”

It's only since they've had Matthew that Arthur has learned to do anything vaguely resembling cooking or grocery shopping. He gets by on things he can keep on hand, like apples or tinned oranges, a pack of good quality cheese in the fridge, or a stash of frozen vegetables and TV dinners in the freezer. He doesn't know why there's a stereotype that gay men cook; it’s so far from true of him and most everyone he has ever been with. Maybe it’s the crowds he has moved in throughout his life. But he refused to lose Matthew because he and Curt were so unfit to care for a child that they had nothing to feed him except cold leftover pizza, which meant that it was time to man up and learn to navigate a damn grocery store. He’s amazed at how much cheaper it is. So’s Curt, who might have sold his soul and licensed his whole catalogue of music to Bank of America commercials so he could live on delivery pizza instead of shopping or cooking.

“We’ll be fine,” Curt says.

“I know.”

“As I said, I’m more worried about _you_ , since you must be in a – a weird place.”

“I’m all right,” Arthur assures him. “I need some time to think, that’s all. You don’t mind about the cigarettes?”

“If you prefer, I can offer you a toothpick.”

Curt has tried toothpicks and rubber bands and several other tricks to curb his cigarette cravings. They won’t cut it for Arthur, who doesn’t smoke out of habit, but reaches for a cigarette when he’s under enough stress. He supposes his father qualifies, even posthumously.

“Sorry,” Arthur says, “I need real poison this time.”

“Well, be careful about smoking around _my_ kid, and if you can do that, it’s all good.”

Curt tries to keep his tone light, but Arthur can hear the tightness behind his words. Curt spent ages chain-smoking on the balcony and brooding after Matthew’s diagnosis – another response that was rather backwards, now that Arthur thinks of it. Arthur had imagined Curt going to pieces if Matthew ever did need surgery, and Arthur being unable to do much of anything, since Curt, not Arthur, would be considered the parent. But Curt might be improving. He’s trying to put by money for any medical treatments Matthew may need. A lengthy tour is out of the question for now, so he has tried other things Arthur never pictured him doing, like licensing a couple songs for use in ads, though he hasn’t stooped as low as the Bank of America yet. He complained that it was selling out, but there was good money in rock and roll nostalgia, so he may as well earn some. It was extremely easy money, too, and the cost of health care in America has made Arthur miss Britain’s welfare state, if it’s still intact.

“I’ll be careful,” Arthur promises. Something crosses his mind then, quite suddenly. He watches Curt jiggling Matthew in his arms, the delight on Matthew’s small face, and wonders if he should speak up. He decides to risk it.

“You know what we _could_ do?” Arthur asks. “Someday. It might sound mad, though…”

“Hey, I like mad ideas – and I like that you still pull out these British expressions despite living here this whole decade.”

“Well, that’s good,” Arthur says, “because I was going to say we could move back to the UK – maybe. If you wanted to. You could base yourself out of London and then if Matt ever needs that surgery for his heart, he could access the NHS. The care would be just as good as here, and we wouldn’t have to worry so much about the money.”

Curt frowns. Matthew points at something outside the window, a pair of sparrows flying overhead, and babbles with excitement.

“That’s great, Matt,” Curt says, too fixed on Arthur to look at the birds that have caught Matthew’s eye. “You’re sure it’s that easy? It’s not like I can marry you for citizenship…”

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Very funny, but you wouldn’t have to. I mean, you _could_ take British citizenship, but you’d just have to be resident there to use the NHS. I think you’d have to live there a year or two, if it hasn’t changed since the ‘70s. My boyfriend Simon, who I met in '78 – he was American and I think he’d been in London about eighteen months when he had this car accident. He was writing about some museum or other in Cornwall – that’s a county in the west of England –”

“I know it’s a place in England, and I don’t give a shit if it’s in the east or the west. Go on.”

Arthur’s face warms, although he should be beyond embarrassment with Curt, who knows that Arthur can get uncharacteristically chatty and distracted when he’s flustered.

“Well, Simon managed to break his leg in the accident, and needed all sorts of physical therapy after.” He smiles, relaxing into the familiar role of teasing Curt. “The sex was pretty crap for us for a while, but I know he had no problem using the NHS, which he needed badly.”

Arthur had ended up taking care of Simon, helping him hobble around London on his crutches and running errands and things for him. It was a shame Simon dumped Arthur for an ex-boyfriend almost as soon as they moved to New York together, but he was sweet before that, and blond, and, as it happened, the only man Arthur ever dated who _could_ cook.

“So Matt could get health care in, what, a year or two? And what do we do about his mom? She couldn’t object?”

The question sobers Arthur. He gnaws at his lip, considering.

“I’m no lawyer, but I think, if she lets you adopt him, then you get to decide where he’ll live with you – but you should ask your _real_ lawyer, not me. I don’t actually know what I'm talking about.” He hesitates. “I suppose you could offer her some money when she calls, since you say that’s all she’s interested in. I hate that it'd be like buying our kid, but it might help.”

Curt grimaces. “I’d hate that, too, and I’d hate knowing that she’ll spend anything I give her on smack.”

“Well, we don't have to, but it could keep her happy in the short term. Then, if she ever gets her act together, maybe she can have a bit of a relationship with Matthew later.”

He tries, and fails, to keep the doubt and disgust from his voice. Curt makes a sound that's half-way between a laugh and a snort.

“Don't you sound excited,” Curt says. “And I never realized you had such a ruthless streak in you.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Arthur insists, but Curt scoffs at him.

“You do. You’re smarter and tougher about navigating the music industry than I ever was, and I never would have thought of doing all that for Matt.”

“The move, or giving in and giving Debbie some money if we ever do something that pisses her off?”

“Both.”

Arthur purses his lips.

“I wouldn’t call it ‘ruthless’. I want what’s best for you and for Matthew, that’s all.”

Curt kisses him, holding Matthew out of the way, awkwardly, so he won’t get caught between them.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Curt says. “Although I could point out that it’s weird you suggest moving back to England as soon as your father dies.”

“It’s not about that,” Arthur protests, knowing full well that his words must be hard to believe.

“Fine – never mind,” Curt replies, bringing Matthew to rest against his shoulders. “Are you going to smoke that cigarette, or what? As much as I love you solving all my problems, or trying to…”

“Right, I’m going. I think I’ll take a walk around the block, then come home and change.” Arthur quirks an eyebrow. “Matthew will need his jacket when I get back. I hate to sound cheap, but you know we’ll be lucky if that thing still fits him come spring.”

Curt opens his eyes wide, his face all innocent, boyish charm. “What? I got it in a bigger size than he needs. That’s fucking responsible parenting.” 

Complaining about Curt’s extravagance and his spoiling Matthew only makes him dig in his heels more. Arthur doesn’t mind. It’s another joke between them, one of many.

“Well, do some ‘fucking responsible parenting’ on your own for fifteen minutes or so,” Arthur says, his eyes sparkling, “and I’ll see you both later.”

It’s with a pang of reluctance that he turns from Curt and Matthew, who stops sucking his thumb long enough to wave goodbye, and walks through the crowded living room toward the hall door. He almost wonders if, after all that, he should change his mind and stay. But he knows he won’t need to be on his own for very long.


End file.
